As the charcoal smooths her cheeks and forehead, and forms the more specific facial features, her countenance slips from the white page into the incandescent light of the room; and with the hint of first focus, her eyes, formed only a moment ago, stare into the fog as it morphs into her world.
Once the edges clear she will rise, fully formed, and walk into the room. I am impatient; I wait with baited breath.
Can she tell us what is on the other side?
charcoal, 18 x 24, Strathmore